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You don't have to touch me to make me feel whole

I don't think about your body, I think about your soul

When you talk about your family, I see you're pure at heart

When you show me your work ethic, I see how you make art

You have made a lovely home and created such a space, in which every time I enter I feel safely in that place

You could read to me and do nothing more
You impress me as a person and that's something I adore

You are smarter than me and it makes me kind of mad
You reciprocate my wit and that makes me really glad

People talk about you and I secretly am proud
knowing who you are, I'm thankful God has allowed

I wish to be what you are to me
So valuable and true

I hope you look at me and see the things,
that I will always see in you
I have met someone who inspires me to be a better person
Once in Earnest Doubt did my Faith Suppress,
The First Great Angel accepted my Prayer
Of Random Choice did in Honest Address
Took pleasure in Follow; And found her Fair
And why not from the Bard's State was her Birth
For she the Limestone Guardian of Plum's Prince
Took Seven more Wings; And produced their Worth
Have sung his Growing Concept ever since
You know how leeched I am on your Good Deed,
A Stunning Example I must pursue
Truth avast takes Life's Innocence for keep
Then land on your Incarnate good and true.
Please forgive me. This is all I should know
Now enjoy your Shoot with the Man of the Show.
#daleysangels #cakelh
Inferno,
exponential flame
tearing at the world until
all that’s left is it’s name

from the dust and gravel
arise the youth
on revolutionary wings of
marble

only for the glorious resurgence
to become fallen angels
engulfing the world
that they had wished
to save in
earnest
Some days I wake up with my neck slick
beads of sweat soak the pillowcase,
my hair as though I've been bobbing for apples.

Perhaps I should be.

I'm starving, I think,
for the kind of knowledge which is dubbed
forbidden or shrouded,
hidden.
Written in redwoods,
eyes like nebulae
and sandstone futures.

If I could read the Andes like braille, what revelations would
erupt?

I'm yearning to greet the haunts and beetles once my clock
runs out.
But I lie
awake
and am greeted by
no one.  
I'm frozen, now,
with molasses
feet
like running from the Golem in a January dream.
My fingertips leave damp, checked cotton, reaching out with an earnest desperation, and
I'm left sticky, swatting at vapors.
The uniVerse Aug 2015
Maybe I needed words to confirm
whisper them when it's your turn
mouth me from across the room
E-L-E-P-H-A-N-T J-U-I-C-E
is the same as I love you
deceive me with mammals
as I play piano
pouring my heart upon the keys
do with me as you please
"I'm yours, I'm yours"
rings out the chorus
the deafening silence
of love unrequited.

A boomerang that doesn't come back
a runaway train on broken tracks
maybe I should have held onto words
not listened to the singing birds
that told me you felt the same
how could I believe your heart was tamed
for I am no ringmaster
a gazelle that's wandered into foreign pastures
I was your prey
yet I was bold
for the words I say
are seldom told
with such earnest longing
so behold
I L-O-V-E Y-O-U
https://www.instagram.com/p/BzoPZeNHH_c
William Eberlein Feb 2013
A hand over your eyes,
to surprise you.

A hand to your lips,
so that I can say those three words first.

A hand over your heart,
to warm it and to ease it.

A hand on your hips,
to feel you dance.

A hand on your soul,
to witness you full and true.

And not to forget...

My hand in yours,
to let you know,
that I will never leave your side.

That you are not alone,
when facing infinity.

And that I will love you,
for all eternity.

A hand offered in earnest,
to start a journey together,
in a world of endless possibility.
karin naude Jan 2014
an innate thirst
a compelling, life altering thirst
for

love

no not passion and lust

but

pure unadulterated love

to drink from that untainted spring
how my soul longs and dream
for the coming of that day
no longer left desolate with thirst
no longer questioning providence
no longer screaming at the sky

but

pure invigoration

a love so earnest
words fail in description
can, only, be felt and instinctively known

but instinct blurred by experience
George Stark Apr 2017
The angel, Azrael,
came unto me -
he'd been drunk -
and showed me the true meaning of life

was inside of my glass:
"Swirling and burning;
a sour taste
in the back of your throat.
Something to sip wearily,
or gulp down in
devilish earnest. "

But of all things
the glass would empty
and the angel
would close His book
on us all.
karin naude Feb 2014
a stone path
lit by faith
surrounded by black
protected by love
identified by slow adding moments
made to endure time and death
i believed this was my hunting map
now crown less
a peasant wandering
insecure
seeing but not knowing what
lost my will to try
avoid all to protect the heart
my source of life

i believed
i understood the image of love
that i would be able to identify false love
not the bedtime story love
but earnest love
now
i question its possibility of existence
Bus Poet Stop May 2015
come to me,
my beloveds
with long nails
and squinting eyes,
spare neither
claw or hook,
delve and devolve,
critique and solve
the words of this prophet
scribbled on plastic
bus seats

give me
my due,
my comeuppance,
my downfalls

will me
to be better
or worse
if that be betterment

so eagerly
will embrace,
grasp, insert
your benailing fingers,
soften, grasp,
repoint thy claws
taking thy earnest joy
at pain inflicted
as my own
as long as you dare
just say something!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A bus poem
in honor of my invitation  
my digital birthing

April 8th, 2015
em Feb 27
Quis hic locus?
quae regio?
quae mundi plaga?

what world is this?
what kingdom?
what shores of what worlds?

- girl, interrupted
1999
When, in disgrace that I myself despise
And all alone do I lament my fate
I think upon my sweet love’s steel blue eyes
And doing so my troubles dissipate
In my philosophy I do declare
That in all heaven and all earth
There is no one so wond’rous fair
I have not a whit of her worth
In wallowing in thoughts of pity springs
My perfect songbird from solemnity
As the dove from the ocean brings
Green sprigs of hope from land to sea
To the ideal you lift me from my spleen
I am, forever, your earnest faerie queene
WA West Aug 2018
A loose handed emblem,
of folded thoughts,
Loss is weaponized in enchanted red,
Wrongs corrected stemming from the
blissful bare signed gawky individuals.
Homage backtracked and renounced
Barely earnest calls for a curious fathom-ability
Heaven bound birdlike shadows,
Bright light gagged and janky,
Found little finger blood tacked to the earth.
One day I will depart the train at a station without a name,
Pull emergency cord and take the plunge thru parted doors.
I'll pack no suitcase or bindle, in my head young, free and single,
I will be a living swindle - wherefore art prat poet of before?
New job doing something I've shown no interest in before,
Change my name to 'Neville Moore'.

I'll do a Reginald Perrin, leave red herring threads at Sherring-
ham, then dice-rolled palookaville of new self I shall explore.
When Palookas call me Neville, they won't see this wasted rebel,
But numpty Neville, on the level, who misplaced his wasted days of yore.
Amnesiac clerk stoical over mist-shrouded days of yore.
Only knew my name was Neville Moore.

Neville will moonlight at night-school, pick up a trade that's practical,
In minimalist digs post-dossing on unforeseen saviour's floor.
Time's sandstorm obscures lyrics, John Doe-penned hieroglyphics
- lost soul Lysander's from Norwich. His mind shut like a shoved closed drawer
To Poesy's Pandora's box of ******* in indigo iron drawer
In Norwich. No bones to Neville Moore.

Neville will be a straight arrow, nice chap whose mind is narrow,
Tepid tryer temping at call-centre, lockjaw forevermore.
The blandest of mystery men, what was Neville's name again?
Man with no memories blends in; my dead ringer, stunky, strong-jawed.
Eye-witness testimony of 36 years will gladly be abjured
- done myself good deed poll: Neville Moore.

I'll  abscond so left Lysander might be eternal loose end, the
Inner poltergeist confined to an indigo iron drawer.
Tomorrow I'll do a John Stonehouse bog-snorkelling, a grandiose
loser who fled being infamous in his own dinnerhour, a bore
Unto myself.  I'll abandon ship,  then life will be less of a bore,
Being much more boring Neville Moore.

And I'll meet a girl called Sybil, Palookashire an idyll,
Where a man with no past can just wash up upon the shore.
For if child is father of the man, Neville'll be an upbeat orphan!
Labels torn off the clothes from Oxfam what Memory's Outlaw wore,
Newfoundhometownbound Mister X such clueless clothes wore,
Clean the pockets of Neville Moore.

Sybil won't be the type to probe, at night she'll pop her Zopiclone,
Cuddle up to normal Neville, earnest the embrace of average amour.
We will rent a little bedsit and expend a lotta effort
To make our place seem white-picket-fenced, tho'  we resided on 3rd floor.
Down updrafts of Fate, untempted to faceplant from the 3rd floor
Is plain ol' sane ol' Neville Moore. 

No temptation, but something racing, the unexplained midnight pacing,
And murmurs in Nev's sleep there's reams in an indigo iron drawer.
But in daylight we'll have daughter, from nowhere the name 'Cobania'
(Nev wouldn't dig Nirvana, fin de siecle scream's aural chore,
nihilistening not for Neville in zen of playful household chores).
Shrug-a-lugs of numb Neville Moore.

Neville wouldn't get promotion, Neville doesn't have much gumption.
Frankenstein's **** domesticus by design, Nev's a swollen snore.
Lice would have mocked, 'Call this living?' Lice is dead, would always give in
To windmills' wheeling withering, watched like a raven, set no store
In what life we have worth living, which is what life life has in store
For unquestioning Neville Moore. 

Neville, don't be snarling slave to snafus by another self made,
Be complete now the only piece is the missing piece of the jigsaw.
Radio receives no 'roger', they won't see Cobania as a toddler,
But for famalam, there's succour: lines left in indigo iron drawer.
For Lice did leave literally living will in indigo iron drawer:
Poem entitled Neville Moore.

Nev and Sybil will have ups and downs, in facades cracks gouge frowns;
Castaway's fury in his eyes curdles Florida coleslaw.
I don't need Sybil's mithering, I mean 'Nev' dint, thinking about writing
- did we do Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining', too nuts too soon in Neville Moore?
Polter-Lice rattling in indigo iron liar's den re Neville Moore's 
Writer's shock swan-song for Neville Moore.

And sweet phantom Cobania, I hope she ends up saner
than her Canoe Man old man, sent reeling by subconscious southpaw
Of split personality punch-ups,  one-man-band fight clubs,
punchdrunk on bad self burps, tho' he burped Cobania with awe.
Pneumatically patting doting dad, errant soon so overawed
By humdrum Heaven, Neville Moore's.

Witness protection program to hide me from self-hate's hitman,
But Miltonic Satan's heart held Hell, for killer within is law
Unto himself. Thus phoenix photo album of my alter ego
To ***-end before Year Zero was burnt down, act of soul at war.
Greener grass scorched earth, everyman Eden sacked by selves at war,
Lysander negging out Neville Moore.

His ship's sailed ment'lly down the toilet - can't see the dream, it's ultraviolet!
Sybil wagging her finger with ****** of a fishwives' wappenshaw.
Cobania's cantankerous tween, Nev hears fin de siecle scream
- call the toilet 'Kurt', it's flushing the dream! Behold:  tombstone beneath 
                                                        ­    a sycamore,
Man from nowhere nowhere now beneath suicide's sycamore.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Beneath me to quote Ocean Colour Scene, beneath sycamore willow-leaned,
But day I caught train derailed: no malaise of glory, Anon no more.
Cobania in black with ***** highlights will grieve Daddy on the quiet;
Sybil indignant that the senseless,  existential eyesore
Option all her lost-and-found, found-and-lost, haunted hubbie saw.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Nev won't see Cobania grow up: she doesn't exist - s' good job!   
Yet I'll miss driving lessons and wedding, even if shaggy dog's dewclaw
Scratched itself out, vestigial scythe: Neville was never alive.
But this 2.4, 2.0 narrative smelted indigo iron drawer.
Cenotaph recast as mask, new visage's vista dark as in a drawer
Now quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

After Poe's misnomer, well, misnumbered: one short, 17 stanzas  
Ironically encode birthday of old dud cub who overroars
Last-ditch striped leopard, tame un-me. Lord Lucan, he WAS lucky
-  there's freedom in fake ID! But Neville grew sick, sick of me no more
Now as one two selves expire, same sigh of relief 'low sallow sycamore:
Thank **** Lice is nevermore.
My birthday is 17/05.
kiss me sweet lemon drops
down onto the meadow
into the valley below
explore the curves
of her landscape
And what she holds to show
with invitation earnest
feel the breath of lips part
each movement
so precious so deserved
Each beat of her heart
an temporary ecstasy
that envelops every desire
Fantasies unravel thrusts at a time
bodies come close
close coming minds
utterly divine
*** in its prime
it all starts with a kiss
Dennis Willis Oct 2018
Or do I
have you
tonight?

Clenched Waiting

A heart
I sing
for a heart

I art
for heart

Would you have
these earnest lines

Unfetched and
unrendered
Harsh Aug 2018
-  I will always be willing to listen to your
stories, and will forever want to hear them.
Your words are as good as music to me.

- There will be days where the sun feels cold to
me and I am made a prisoner to my deepest fears.
There will be nights where I wake up sobbing,
just as much a prisoner as I was during the day.
Be gentle, be patient with me.

- I smile at everyone I make eye contact with on the street.

- I love in an earnest manner that can be
overwhelming. I am not malevolent,
but rather I have spent years being told
that my feelings aren’t worth listening to,
and I just have a lifetime’s worth of love to give.

- If you manage to hold what I can throw at you,
you’ve found someone in your
corner that won’t go without a fight.

- You’ll never see me fighting anyone.

- I’ve worried I’m too vulnerable for far too long;
I am raw and unadulterated and unabashedly so.
I refuse to inhibit what I have to say.

- I will give you all that I have and more;
please don’t take advantage of this.

- I will write about you, I will write about how
I feel, I will write about someone I once loved
and about how I once felt. Words and feelings
are fleeting, but they are also powerful.

- I will ask you questions until I’ve found out
everything there is to know about you-
including things you never thought about.

- I have friends who will call me in the dead of
night; I will answer the phone, I will drive to
their house with their favorite dessert in tow.

- I will pull over on the side of the road if the
clouds are compelling enough. I can sit for hours
watching the sun set or water fall. Either hold my hand
and join me, or let me be overwhelmed by something 
greater than myself in peace.

- No one can or will love you the way that I do;
take that as my most horrid vice, or my most endearing virtue.
to someone I'm not sure I've met yet
multi sumus Jun 23
...with tether torn and lash reclaimed
armed with no more than a desire to satiate and the passion wielded throughout antiquity

a wanton flesh in earnest the palete seeks that
pleasure may stake its claim...
Wk kortas Jan 2017
(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)

I.

There are the balladeers,
Working in service of their inner Service,
(Though, despite the seeming impossibility,
Their hackneyed verse is even worse)
Creating tortuous rhyme
Which slows down labyrinthine narratives
Ending up in some deus ex machine
So implausible that it would make Euripides blush
(Most often courtesy of some unforeseen projectile
Or sudden viral contagion;
Would that their creators meet such a fate!)

II.

I come not to praise the so-called sonneteers,
But to bury them.
They are an earnest lot,
(Lord knows that they are earnest)
And they will make their fourteen lines rhyme
(Though sometimes the rhyme scheme screams for mercy)
And hang the cost.
Though their narratives are head-scratching things,
And their iambs proceed with the steadiness
Of a nonagenarian church pianist
Doing her damndest to fight the wedding march to a draw,
They are content, nay, proud of their work
Because babble rhymes with Scrabble
(Though they are not particularly proficient with the latter,
They have the former down to an art.)

III.

Let us not forget the Buk-zombies,
Those apostles of aphorism,
Most of whom speak of their departed deity
As if he were an old drinking buddy
(Never mind that most of them were two or three
Or perhaps not even a bad idea
In the back seat of some mom’s Buick
When he exited this mortal plane, stage left, even.)
One’s mind is boggled whilst considering
The expanse of the bar required to accommodate
Everyone who would like to
(Or worse, have claimed to)
Buy old Charlie a beer, not that he’d stand for a round.
They are a sullen horde, this lot,
Best dealt with by aiming for the base of the skull.

IV.
Ah, the confessionals, Lord have mercy upon their souls
(For they shall have none upon ours.)
They feel so many things so deeply
As such things have never been felt before
(They have not read their Sexton, their Snodgrass,
Their Lowell, their Pl--well, no,
They have all read their Plath.)
It is, from the moment they arise in the morning
Until such time they set aside their fears and let sleep take them,
All too much for them,
And they bravely face the days
Until such time they care bear to take action
And fling themselves from some convenient precipice.
We should, as a service to them and ourselves,
Ensure the soles of their shoes
Are sufficiently worn and slippery.

(I hate poets.
They annoy me deeply.)
With a tip of the cap (and a rather profuse apology, as well) to Ms. Dorothy Parker
Kate Apr 2018
Once oxygen
has oxidized
i’m no longer
the prize i was

If possession is all
of our common law–
i’ll stand alone
wide eyes, slack jaw

Sweet talk about time
toilet paper and mold
Do you see when i bleed?
Am i warm or gone cold?

A white wall, an ocean
an endless expanse
no detail, no focus
no time left for dance–

an earnest laugh
through the wall
A shiny thing dulled
A second missed call

hush
Revised from November 2017
Nat Lipstadt Mar 5
letter to elana

for the poet elana bell

~

in a different cafe,
on a Manhattan streetscape where once, years earlier,
violence was the purview of West Side Story gangs,
ruling their internecine non-intersectionality territorial blood lines supremely

nowadays, violence replaced by the frenetic
noises of Lincoln Center theater goers,
student dancers, actors, musicians and poets joining the throng
of those who sup and run,
all hearing their own frantic
curtain calling, saying, announcing,
music dance voices words require your obeisance,
needy for a mutual worshipping reassurance fiat that:

life can be made transcendent
if even for just 90 minutes or 120 pages,
or a 3 minute poem reading


this city of millions requires billions of poems that spoon stirred  
and yet, almost always fail, to squeeze, all of the human essence that is in its ultimate source, clarifying nyc tap water,
containing the storied remnants of a hackable continuous,
single human stanza cell osmosis - a blockchain like no other

two poets sit side by side each in their own lapsed dreams,
she, a published poet of prize and rank, ^
he, a rank amateur whose only prize is his unpublished anonymity,
poetry, is his just a nightly soul cleansing,
an imported remnant of his Marrano piyyutim ancestry

one turns to the other,
in the inexplicable daily crazy miracle
of city fashionistas

in a city where stealing a parking spot, or the
forced squeezing creation of a subway seat space
where physics proves none exists,
are oft the roots of slashing and stabbings faithfully reported
on the 11 o’clock news,  
and trust and/or other encouraging words
are seldom heard and even less demonstrated,
the make-no-eye-contact of Camus’s L’Etranger anomie is the
normative, paranormal, paralysis cloak of we city separatists

“Can you watch over my electronics and stuff?”

Sure says the grayed and grizzled,
an all life long veteran of nyc,
judged to be trustworthy
based on a few seconds of being upsized and downsized,
a car wash (exterior only) perusal
despite a
“no direction home, like a compete unknown, a rolling stone,”  
this signage, yellow star permanently chest-affixed,
conveniently ignored, as it seems impossible
thieves don’t look like me,
don’t likely in their possess,
a distinguished head of gray hair (yeah, sure)

a thank you reward of (or did I imagine it) a lean-in,
a momentary head on a shoulder,
the chit chat now grows earned and earnest,
she confesses her cardinal poetry profession,
eliciting an ‘Oh Boy’ utterance from the poet
of a thousand names
and a thousand textual emendations

a fastidious nyc boundary is brief crossed for one short meal,
till the end when time sensitized IMRL intrudes and
the showtime calls out,
if not now, when? if not me, then who?

I read her poetry later in the praying supine first position of
three AM, and laugh with delight, at the contrast and no compare,
the styles clash and tho the stories told
are both writ in the aleph bet script,
there ends the Ven diagram overlap and
into the night’s coming of a Elvisian blue suede coverlet,
we both disappear, and if not for this recording,
history says, you old man confused, never happened,
just an imaginary poetry ink blot dream breaching...

~

postface:
another poetry book is no longer homeless,
comes to shelter upon my shelf, close to Angelou, far from Whitman,
now all the book’s nooks eyes collectively
reassessing the new old-owner, parsing his syntax,
undecided if his readership is worthy of them,
concluding that all these books are the
man’s owned roughened stones,
to be placed by human hands on the
serpentine curvature of his literary tombstone,
and until all stones fully read,
they all agree,
will they and he
be fully freed,
smoothing his legacy’s edges
Feb. 21 -March 5, 2019
NYC
another true story

^ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elana_Bell
Seanathon Jun 2018
If I could show you the depths of my heart. The softness of my voice when the trees are in ears, and my thoughts aligned and unified like the stars.

If I could share with you just an hours time, I would give to you...no, grant you this. A passage through the valley of mind where the still light shines.

If I knew you better I'd still be afraid.
If I knew you less I wouldn't be scared.

Because as confusion, and wishes, and unspoken thoughts rain down like the April days which fell away. So also does my head now fall in earnest hope, that your words, however few, will never be stripped away.
From the Sleepless Feet collection.

Raw and real. As I'm continually challenging myself to be.
Tom Dodd Jul 10
Sometimes I feel like a monster
Acting less like a man than beast
When the ugliest, unsightly part of me
Is the most of myself not the least

When a prayer
Seems more like a tired rant
Than an earnest plea

The raging storm dies
The sun brightens the day
And calm returns to the sea
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